


welcome home

by lovethybooty



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: AU, Bandstand AU, Coping, Death of a Spouse, F/M, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Meet-Cute, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-World War II, Survivor Guilt, Widowed Annie, idek how to tag this tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-04-30 10:28:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14494959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovethybooty/pseuds/lovethybooty
Summary: and i stand here helpless, my arms extended, knowing full well, darling — your war’s not ended.





	welcome home

**Author's Note:**

> loosely based on the premise of the 2015 musical, bandstand

and i stand here helpless, my arms extended, knowing full well, darling — your war’s not ended.

if war has taught him anything, it’s that he should be dead.

he should be lying in a trench somewhere — body limp, lifeless, and rotting. he shouldn’t be alive, with a heart that still beats and lungs that still breathe.

but he is. by some grace of god he is. and now he has to live with that, among other things.

so, the least he can do is pay a visit to his buddy’s girl and keep good on his promise.

he visits her on a tuesday afternoon, flowers in hand just as his mother always taught him. hair is combed back and gelled, crisp white shirt tucked neatly into tan trousers, the heavy stench of jack and gin masked by new cologne.

the house, her parents’, is quaint.

she sits at a spinet piano, back to him, nimble fingers practicing the same set of scales over and over. he’d heard the familiar intervals when her father first opened the door, but hadn't expected to see her playing.

_(perhaps he should have_ _—_ _gloss told him once she liked to sing. ‘lullabies like june christy,’ he’d say.)_

and he wants to ask her why she doesn’t just play a song, but he knows firsthand that repetition might as well be the sixth stage of grief.

so, instead,

“you play piano?”

his voice brings fluttering fingers to a halt.

the young woman turns her head, green eyes wide like marbles. there is a fresh blush to tanned cheeks, and chocolate curls are held together neatly by a thick strand of lavender ribbon. she stares at him for a moment, intent, as though trying to remember something terribly important.

“finnick,” he finally says with a nod. “odair.”

rose lips part in a small _oh_ , the type of silent gasp that suggests a grand revelation.

_(so_ **_this_ ** _is the man who lived.)_

she rises from the wooden bench, clammy palms pushing down the front of her linen dress. and it’s written in the way her chest is raised ever so slightly — **rigid** , _tense_ — that she wants to say something. but they barter with time instead and come out the other end with a knowing glance, eyes locking from across the room.

“do you mind?” a stiff hand finally gestures toward the piano. “i play too.”

“no, not at all,” a simple nod, and she’s sitting back down, scooting over so there will be room enough for the both of them. he slides in next to her, eyes scanning over the white and black keys because he doesn't dare look at her.

“my name is annie,” spoken quiet, as though perhaps he is not aware that he's speaking to a dead man’s wife.

“annie,” he repeats, turning the name over on his tongue. it’s nice enough, but there’s a twisting knot in his gut. he shouldn’t be the one saying her name.

near hesitant fingers hover over the keys for a brief moment before he begins a melody, something short and sweet. its soft hum fills the silent spaces between heavy thoughts, a _welcomed_ reprieve.

“he made me promise him something,” he mutters after a moment, looking over at where the wisp of a woman has taken over. she must’ve recognized the tune, pretty common among dance halls and USO shows. “if anything happened to him.”

her eyes search his face for answers he can’t possibly have, but she doesn't speak.

“you see,” he says, shoving a hand into his pocket, “he wanted you to have this.”

he plucks out his wallet, roots around until a dog-eared photo and a folded piece of paper are held safe in his right hand.

“made me promise i'd deliver it in person.”

and those green eyes of hers go wide again, a delicate hand reaching for the crumpled parchment, the little snippet of a picture. thumb brushes over the photograph — gloss and finnick in a barrack somewhere, laughing. someone next to them is holding an acoustic guitar.

her eyes don't leave the picture as she speaks.

“i’d like to read this alone, if that's okay.”

“of course,” he says. palms press flat against the bench and he pushes himself to a stand.

he’s already made it to the doorway when her voice calls him back, head turning to see her staring directly at him. the onset of tears are present in those ocean hues as she fumbles to unfold the letter; however, she is _smiling_.

“you’re welcome to stay for dinner, though.”


End file.
